I Just Thought
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: Small Johnlock (mostly) ficlets that pop up in my mind. Not interconnected.
1. The Reader of Signs

_So these are just some things I wrote... a long time ago... and I had no idea what to do with them. But anyway. These can be read individually if you like, because I don't really think of continuity when I write them. I'll keep updating as I write these. Anyway. I own nothing, obviously._

...

**The Reader of Signs**

Over the course of his forty-one years of life, John Watson has had many titles – Doctor, Captain, and more recently, Hug-Giver, Love-Whisperer and Tongue-Dancer. These recent ones have been awarded to him by his cranky, lanky love in the late recesses of the night, after a particularly rewarding session or two of, well, hugging and kissing and love-whispering and tongue-dancing, among other... activities.

Over the past few years, however, Doctor John H. Watson has earned another title, one he is much respected for among his peers at the New Scotland Yard – The Reader of Signs. DI Greg Lestrade was the one to give it to him, and he has worn it proudly - for not every person has the talent and patience to learn how to read the signs and symbols Sherlock Holmes portrays. It's a tough job, no denying it. Yet John Watson is the perfect man for it.

He's able to interpret the tiniest jerk of the head to the biggest tantrum, and frankly, everyone admires him for it. So, he'll tell you, if you ask (not that many people do), that a subtle nod and smile from the usually not-so-subtle detective holds infinitely more meaning than his eloquent words. It screams, 'Yes, I'm lying to the witness, so back me up here,' louder than anything else. A small touch to the arm in the middle of a shout from Lestrade could mean 'Thank you for having my back there,' or simply, 'I'm hungry.' For while Sherlock Holmes claims he does not need to eat, sleep or even breathe like the regular human (god forbid that were ever to happen), his sweetheart almost always knows better than to take his protests seriously.

A flick of the eyes is more indicative of what Sherlock wants the good doctor to do while on a case, and this is always responded with a small nod from the latter in the affirmative. A deep furrow of the brow and flopping about on the sofa speaks of the onset of the black cloud of boredom from lack of cases for a long period of time (there's only so much boredom shagging and Doctor Who can get rid of) and John takes this as his cue to call Lestrade and ask him for the cold cases he's reserved specially for those days.

And that wicked twitching of the mouth and brightening of the eyes... well, John knows very well _exactly_ what that means. It's a peek into the dirty thoughts that swirl around in Sherlock's mind, making John blush slightly and try to will his little friend down below to disappear for a bit, because _for-god's-sake-we're-in-public-Sherlock!_ He doesn't succeed very often, thus explaining their disappearances right in the middle of interrogating important suspects or undercover in a cheese factory.

It's not just the visual signs, but the sounds Sherlock makes, too, from time to time. The little, satisfied sighs in bed every time they come from slow, sweet administrations to the other's body. The indistinct clearing of the throat every time someone is trodding on his already-frayed nerves and _I-just-need-you-to-get-rid-of-them-John_. All indicators. Every single one of them.

For to John Watson, Sherlock Holmes is an open book, one he's learned to slowly read over the years, always learning, always remembering. And he hopes that his sweet, infuriating love will never stop being the way he is, always teaching him new things about himself.

…

_Thoughts?_

__PS - those following Prepare For Trouble (Or Make it Double) - don't worry. The last chapter is under way (tho when I'll post it I'm not too sure), and I haven't abandoned it.__


	2. Longing

**Longing**

So even I'm not above feeling lonely from time to time! I _am_ human after all, even when I try and wish so desperately not to be. When you go out with that endless parade of girlfriends - so dull, so pathetically predictable - it hurts. I don't even know what you see in them, all they ever want from you is always exactly the same - a steady relationship, regular coitus and so many gifts. At the end of that, marriage and children. Sure, you would 'love' her and all that that word entails, but you wouldn't be satisfied no matter how hard you tried. I know what you crave, John, and it's adventure. That was why you went to Afghanistan. You wanted to do something for your country, yes, but that adrenaline pumping through your veins, the thrill of the chase – _that_ was what you lived for. That is _why_ you choose to live with me. I make life interesting for you. Hard sometimes, extremely hard, but never a moment is dull. Never boring. And I know that best of all because when I said 'adventure' that first day, there you were, ready to join me.

And then, over the course of our living together, I have grown... fond of you, in ways I wouldn't have been able to bear before. You have become a friend, looking out for me always, sometimes even risking your life, and _that_ is something I cannot ignore. But growing unduly fond of you was an accident. A happy accident. I grew to like you even more than one does a friend, constantly looking forward to your praise at my deductions (something no-one except Mummy had done before), to those little secretive smiles reserved especially for me. Yet you continued with those girlfriends, and I hated them every second that they were out on countless dates with you, wishing every single time that it was me with you instead of them, having a perfectly lovely time for once.

I'm obviously not devoid of emotion like most people think, and this... emotion I feel every time I look at you overpowers me. It empties my mind of all else but thoughts of you. You, whom I like to think of as 'my' John. My brave, loyal, loving John. My John Watson, who brings out the best in everyone.

This is one area where I don't know what to do, in which I never know what to do. Because I know you feel the same way, John, just one look at your body language around me reveals everything. Why do you still continue with this pointless charade? Help me here in this one thing, tell me what to do. Only with your help can I move forward.

Because I know you love me, John Watson, the same way that I know I love you. It is irrefutable, like the earth going round the sun. Why deny it? For the sake of pride? Pride would mean that you keep your head held high no matter what you feel for anybody, whether male or female.

Do one thing for me, John, and stop living in denial.

...

_Thoughts?_


	3. Acceptance

**Acceptance**

I try, Sherlock. I try so hard to suppress my feelings for you each day, promising myself that I will rid myself of them. But it's a futile prospect, a thing of the past. No matter how hard I try, it's inescapable - I love you. Which is made doubly harder by the fact that I know you're married to your work and are so consumed and caught up in it that you have room for little else. I will always have to live with the knowledge that my love for you will go unrequited, unlike the seasoned surety with which I throw myself into the pointless, boring relationships with countless women. All of whom matter so little to me, but I keep trying anyway, in order to find someone who engages me to the point that my love for you is in the distant past. An unlikely situation with you in the picture, but a man's got to try.

Romance has always been my forte, so I can tell you the way my heart begins to play the conga whenever you're so close to me is so completely unnatural and much too loud that I fear that you'll be able to hear it. It hurts when you pay more attention to your work and your experiments than to me, your friend and flatmate, and it irritates me to no end.

I know you consider yourself friendless and alone in this world, but believe me, you are not. You will always have me. And you are most definitely not devoid of emotion, if your friendship with me over the past few years has been anything to go by.

I know I am a brave man. I can be brave and do things like invade Afghanistan, but I am not brave enough to reveal my true feelings to my best friend and do something about them. And somehow, somewhere deep inside me, I know you love me too, but my conscious self doesn't want to acknowledge the possibility out of fear of rejection.

It's getting harder and harder to ignore my feelings for you by the day. When we come back from a case, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, mirth covering your face, it's all I can do to stop myself from pushing you up against the wall and snogging you senseless. Because, you beautiful bastard, that's what you do to me. You play with my feelings (without knowing it, of course) and leave me more confused than ever. When you sit on the sofa in a dressing gown some mornings, with your feet up and a steaming mug of tea in hand, you look extremely huggable and I just want to cuddle next to you, feeling your solid warmth. There are a lot more situations I find myself craving more than just friendly contact with you in, but there's no point making such a list.

This is what I've become. This is what you've turned me into. Not that I regret any of it, of course, but then again, you do make life difficult for me in whichever way you can. You are an infuriating, challenging, demanding, fascinating, engaging, mesmerising and amazing man, Sherlock Holmes, for lack of better words. You're my undoing and my making, and I love you for it. And I will follow you to the ends of the earth if necessary.

...

_Thoughts?_


	4. Coffee

_A/N: This has actually happened to me. I quite literally get drunk on excessive caffeine. It's not half bad an experience. _

...

**Coffee**

They don't usually drink coffee. Their preferred choice of non-alcoholic drink is almost always tea. How very British. But it IS necessary sometimes, when they have to stay up late at night researching for a case or Sherlock's being a cranky drama queen and won't let John sleep if _he_ doesn't sleep. That's all very well.

What Sherlock _can_ recall (along with a fit of un-Sherlock-like giggles) with clarity is that every single time John drinks more than two mugs of coffee, he gets... sort-of, well, _drunk_, with the excessive caffeine in his system. Usually one mug is enough to keep John awake for the next ten-or-so hours (it has a pretty strong impact on him), but two or more are occasionally required. Sherlock enjoys himself each time this happens. ('And it's not fucking _funny_, okay? I'll thank you very much, Sherlock, not to mention these things _freely_. How about I tell everyone about that time when you 'accidentally' singed off all your pubic hair and _eyebrows_?' 'You can go right ahead, John.' 'You bloody git.' *much kissing and shagging*)

The first time it happened was when they were on that Pembleton case, the one with the drugs and dogs. Sherlock was out on the streets until late, and when he came back to 221b soaked and generally in a bad mood, it was to find John acutely observing a pair of his underwear. The Batman ones. The ones he always keeps hidden in the back of his drawer, away from curious eyes ('I _like_ Batman, so what?' 'Nothing. Nothing at all.'). But somehow, John had found them. This would've been fine, except they hadn't got together yet. And Sherlock wasn't used to his privacy being invaded yet. (John was _very_ used this. _Very_.)

So Sherlock was _not_ amused by this. Not at all.

And then John had looked up at him and opened his mouth.

'Heyyyyyy there, beautiful. Whattt're you up to?'

He was _extremely_ cheerful. And extremely horny.

It hadn't taken very long for Sherlock to first blush bright red, then start laughing his arse off. At first he'd thought John was completely pissed as a prune and relished the opportunity of finding out what a drunk John Watson was like (he didn't have much experience with the latter – scratch that, he didn't have any experience with drunk John at _all_), but then he saw John's mug on the dining table and put one and one together (which is what he does best), and concluded that Doctor John Hamish Watson was, indeed, drunk on _coffee_. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the night of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes' first kiss and their first time having sex. Which John Watson remembered clearly, even in the morning after the effects of caffeine in his body had worn off. Both parties were rather happy at this development, if a little awkward for a day or two around each other.

And there's been no looking back now that they're together. So those three other times John's been sloshed on coffee? Sherlock's taken full advantage of the fact that his love's inebriated (well...) and they've had some of the hottest, clumsiest, best sex of their relationship. It's not like normal inebriation, though, and like that first time, John remembers what had happened the previous night, which actually just helps.

A coffee-drunk John is the best altered-state-of-mind-John there is, according to Sherlock Holmes, and he's the only one who's ever seen him like that. He considers himself lucky.

...

_Thoughts?_


	5. Sunny Spanish Beaches

**Sunny Spanish beaches**

Something that still surprises John is how much Sherlock missed out on a normal childhood – while Sherlock _did_ have a lot of fun with his experiments under Mycroft's gentle (but thorough) tutelage, he _did_ completely miss out on other childhood experiences most boys go through. Which is why, while they're on a case in Barcelona (something about a murdered Spanish heiress and her rather large, _missing_ diamonds – they're here on Mycroft's insistence), John's decided to make the most of it.

Having been to the Catalonian capital once as a teenager, he knows just the places to go (though it's possible his knowledge is a bit rusty) and see. But the difficult part is convincing Sherlock to go along with what he wants. He knows Sherlock's a sappy romantic even if he doesn't admit it ('I am _not_!' 'Then how d'you explain the roses and the violin on our fifth anniversary?'), so in the end, he won't mind. But first, the case.

The case is turning out to be more complicated than Sherlock thought (they've alerted Interpol to look for a man with a beard 'as long as Dumbledore's' – 'Who's Dumbledore?' asked a bewildered Sherlock) and the hotel bill is just _skyrocketing_, given the amount of laundry they're generating (_ahem_) – must be nice, John often thinks wistfully, having the British government as your elder brother. Until they can gather more evidence, they're stuck at a dead end. And Sherlock likes it not one bit. But what John sees here is an _opportunity_.

And so the great Sherlock Holmes is hauled to the beach, armed with a spade, a bucket and an enthusiastic John Watson. They spend over two hours building sandcastles – a skill Sherlock seems to be particularly adept at, while John watches his sweetheart's face light up with delight every time he makes a new moat or drawbridge. That time is cut woefully short, according to Sherlock, when John gently takes him to the cycle stand and rents out a tandem bicycle for them for the hour.

'You-you do know how to ride a bicycle, right?' John eyes Sherlock apprehensively.

The latter snorts in derision. 'Don't be silly, John.' He grabs the handle and gestures to John to sit on the back seat.

All in all, it's a productive day. (John nearly falls off the bike when Sherlock swerves sharply and glares at him a good long while. 'I'm a little rusty is all,' is the consulting detective's explanation. All is forgiven seven scorching kisses and a few dirty promises later.)

Sherlock finds a crucial piece of evidence the same night and the case is closed the following after. On the flight back home (blissful home), Sherlock slumps his head on John's shoulder and the good doctor winds and rewinds his finger around a curl in the consulting detective's hair. John sighs happily and states simply, 'Turns out, a bit of sand and sun can do you a lot of good.'

Sherlock's too tired to lift his head and nod. But John knows what he means and smiles.

...

_Thoughts?_


	6. Rainy Days

**Rainy Days**

It's raining yet again. The streets are drenched – and so is Sherlock Holmes. He's been outside for the past hour or so (doing God knows what), and so is in a thoroughly bad mood. He doesn't like the rain very much, truth be told. It's cold and wet and makes you sick. And it turns the London traffic into a slow, crawling, snarling beast with tempers running high everywhere, so you really can't get home at a decent time.

John, on the other hand, loves the rain. He loves the way it falls, sometimes gently, sometimes hard, and the pitter-patter it always makes soothes him. The rain makes everything look fresh and new again, he thinks. And it's just wonderful to sit inside, when it's cold and rainy outside, and drink a hot mug of tea and eat Mrs. Hudson's freshly-baked scones. It's heaven.

So Sherlock comes home, completely drenched, and sees John sitting in his armchair (said armchair swivelled towards the window), serenely drinking his tea and staring outside at the rain. And seeing his love like that, so calm and peaceful, Sherlock gives up. Gives up trying to be angry at the rain, gives up trying to stand upright. He just _gives in_, and slumps down next to John on the arm of his armchair. John says nothing. He just quietly gets up, walks to their bedroom and gets his blanket, a towel and warm clothes for his detective. And when he comes back, he simply sets to work, peeling Sherlock's dripping clothes off his body, shoving the dry ones into Sherlock's hands and going to the kitchen to make him some tea.

Sherlock, meanwhile, revels in the silence. He snuggles into John's blanket, taking in its delicious warmth and John-smell. John pads over to him silently, hands him the tea and sits himself down next to Sherlock, into the blanket.

And they stay like this for the longest while, neither speaking, just listening to the soothing pitter-patter of the steady rainfall.

Until they fall asleep. The rain is their lullaby.

And the next morning when Sherlock wakes up, he looks down at his lover's face, and realises that he's fallen in love with the calming rain, just like he's in love with his beautiful, calming John.

…

_Thoughts?_


	7. Lists

**Lists**

_We sat and made a list  
Of all the things that we had  
Down the backs of table tops  
Ticket stubs and your diaries_

_I read them all one day  
When loneliness came and you were away  
Oh they told me nothing new,  
But I love to read the words you used_

_\- __Things We Lost in the Fire__, Bastille__  
_

It's been many hours since John's left for work, and Sherlock has no case to occupy him. In short? He's a bored man. And everyone knows a bored Sherlock is a dangerous Sherlock.

After leaving John several messages and being snapped at from the other end of the line, masturbating in the shower because he misses his John and eating some of the leftover spaghetti in the fridge, Sherlock decides that there's nothing left to do now but snoop around John's room. Not that it contains much now, anyway, ever since they converted Sherlock's bedroom into _their_ bedroom a few years ago. Still, there might be something interesting left behind there, who knows? And so Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective Extraordinaire, goes sleuthing.

There's the bed, of course, and he gazes at it fondly – for it holds a few amazing memories for him and John. It still has its sheet and duvet, tidily folded in typical John fashion. The chest of drawers has a few dusty photographs and – wait, what's this? It looks like a list, since there are quite a few things written on it in John's neat handwriting, but why does it have _bungee jumping_ and _go to a Coldplay concert _written on it?

He starts to read more of it, but before he's got beyond _7\. Go to the opera_, he hears footsteps tread up the staircase and before he knows it, John's calling out for him. He quickly shoves the list into his pocket and goes to meet his love.

John looks tired, but that's not unusual. He's come back looking worse, and once, even puked-upon. He smiles at Sherlock and pulls him into a long, languid kiss that kindles a slow fire in Sherlock's stomach and warms him right to the core. Yes, _of course_ he'd missed John the whole day. And he's so glad he's back. He always is.

Now that he's seen that list, of all the options, going to the opera seems the most credible for him and John, so he makes a mental note to ask Mycroft for those tickets he got from the French ambassador. As for bungee jumping – what even _is_ that?

'Sherlock?' John mumbles into his neck, which is tense.

'Hmm?'

'Stop thinking and kiss me.'

'With pleasure.' Pushing the list out of his mind for later perusal, he kisses John as if his life depended on it. The decision to forgo dinner is unspoken, as their activities go on until the wee hours of the morning.

'What're your thoughts on us going to the opera this Saturday?'

'Wh-what?' John's yawn cuts him off.

'The opera. Mycroft managed to procure some tickets and I thought you'd like to go?'

'How'd you –? Never mind.'

'Well?'

'I guess I wouldn't mind.'

'And I think there's a Coldplay concert coming up –'

'Ah, I see.'

'What?' Sherlock says, knowing full well he's been caught out.

'You found my old bucket list, didn't you?'

'Oh, so _that's_ what it's called!' He doesn't even bother denying it. 'Yes, well,' he adds defensively, 'I know you like Coldplay and they're not too bad, really, so I thought –'

'Then this means you haven't seen the new one.' John smirks. He slides off the bed and makes for the framed periodic table. He searches around in the back of it and pulls out a long piece of paper, and then comes back to Sherlock, handing the list to him. Sherlock's eyes grow wide as he reads what's on it.

_1\. Grow old with Sherlock. _

That's it. That's the list. His eyes tear up, and he's not afraid to let them spill over as he kisses John over and over and over until he has to come up for breath.

'Thank you,' he whispers. 'I promise I won't disappoint you.'

John kisses Sherlock's fingertips and hums thoughtfully. 'Going to a Coldplay concert _would _be nice, though.'

'Consider it done.'

…

_Thoughts?_


	8. Fear

_This is sorta angsty. I didn't plan for it to be, but it wrote itself. _

…

**Fear**

Fear is a regular occurence in John Watson's life. It comes with the job. Not for himself, hardly ever for himself, but for his arrogant, stroppy significant other. Now that their lives are so inexplicably intertwined, one can understand the fact that this fear is ever-present. But John's fear for Sherlock goes beyond the rational. It is - and he admits it to himself - all-encompassing in life-threatening situations. He has always felt the need to _protect_ – protect those around him, protect those he loves. Now that this love includes Sherlock (him even more so than others), he wants to _protect_. Sherlock knows this, and tries not to do much that'd _trigger_ this fierce protectiveness (for it can be destructive more often than not), but it's an occupational hazard to be caught up in complicated situations.

And John's mind _sears_ with fear for Sherlock, fear that every time, something may go horribly wrong and he'd be left with a lifeless Sherlock and an empty life. But so far, Sherlock comforts him, nothing _has_ gone wrong and nothing _will_, as long as John is always there for him. Always watching out, always in step with him. As much as John loves the thrill, the danger, the fact that they're now romantically so involved that it _physically_ hurts to see Sherlock hurt is what triggers John's fear most of all.

But after a long, harrowing, disturbing case, after Sherlock's tormentor has been caught right in the nick of time and Sherlock's been released from whichever perverted bond the tormentor had thought to bind him with, John's eyes always betray his fear, no matter how calm he looks on the outside.

And Sherlock is always there by his side, comforting him, reassuring him over and over and over again that _he's okay, it's all okay, he's right here_. In his feather light kisses, the lazy circles drawn on John's thigh on the cab rode back, in the way his arm clutches at his partner's waist deep in slumber.

Because John Watson? He may know that his fear is irrational, but it's real in the moment. And he needs Sherlock Holmes to put it right, to reassure.

...

_Thoughts?_


	9. Poetry

_So this turned out longer than I thought it'd be… but then, I'm very passionate about poetry. Especially Shelley and Dickinson. _

…

**Poetry**

Sherlock Holmes recites poetry while in the shower.

He's a poetry fanatic. Browning, Shelley, Frost, Byron, Dickinson, all the Romantic poets – he's read them all. He won't admit to it, but he secretly loves the way the simple words touch his heart, words from another era. He loves the power the words have on him. So he reads and memorises, and in the shower, when he's most calm, he likes to recite it to himself.

John remembers the first time he heard Sherlock recite poetry.

They hadn't quite got together yet – they were still in the getting-there stage of it. John had just sat down in his armchair in the morning, nursing his ritual cup of tea, when he'd heard a voice emerging from the bathroom. Unsure of what was happening, he sat still and listened. And realised it was Sherlock. But was he – _singing_?

No, John had decided. Sherlock's voice didn't carry the hint of melody, but it was a rhythmic recital. It was soothing, carrying over the sound of the shower. John had closed his eyes and simply listened. He'd recognised a few of the lines – and then realised that Sherlock was reciting poetry.

The thought of Sherlock, naked in the shower, reciting Dickinson to himself in his low baritone, had sent a jolt of arousal straight to John's groin.

He's bitten his lip, telling himself that getting off on his flatmate reciting poetry was definitely _not good_ – but then he heard some Shelley and he'd decided, 'Fuck it,' and went to his bathroom to have a quick wank.

He was back before Sherlock had come out of the shower – Sherlock had showered for an unusually long time that day. He'd sat as nonchalantly as he was able in his armchair, sipping his mug of now-cold tea. Sherlock had popped his head through the door of the kitchen to gaze curiously at John. John, who'd noticed that Sherlock was looking at him, was concentrating as hard as he could at his tea. He'd willed himself not to look – he was sure he'd find a certain consulting detective dressed in nothing but a towel slung low at the hips, hair mussed by the water. And that sight would be enough to make him rock hard again, within a space of just twenty minutes.

Sherlock had disappeared into his room and come back out in five minutes, dressed in pyjama bottoms and a faded blue t-shirt.

He'd gone and stood by the window, where the rain was falling gently. John had heaved himself off his chair and gone to join him.

All was silent.

John had stood as close to Sherlock as was possible without actually touching and said softly, 'That poem you recited was beautiful.'

Sherlock had said nothing for a few minutes. Then – 'Ode to the West Wind, P.B. Shelley.'

'I've heard it before. My favourite part is – _if winter comes, can spring be far behind_?'

Sherlock smiled slightly. 'I like that part too. It's... hopeful. Hopeful for the warmth and the sunshine that will come after the cold.'

John was slightly bemused. 'I thought you didn't like poetry?'

'Who said I didn't?'

John grinned and tore his eyes away from the rain to look up at Sherlock. Sherlock was looking at him, his eyes soft and a rare sweet smile playing on his lips.

John fondly looks back upon this moment, remembering it as a turning point in their relationship. That was when they'd actually begun to _know_ each other.

Sherlock still recites poetry in the shower. John joins him now. Sometimes he does so in the bath, and John finds it so erotic that they end up having some of the best sex of their lives in that bathtub. Sherlock recites poetry even when not in the bathroom – he recites it late at night, when they both can't sleep, knowing that it's gentle metre will lull them both into the sleep they need. He recites poetry to comfort John, knowing which poem will calm his blogger and which not.

John tries, and fails, not to always be surprised by this. It's the part of Sherlock that he keeps only for himself, holding it dear against his heart.

…

_Thoughts?_


	10. Meant to Be

**Meant to Be**

Sherlock Holmes does not believe in Fate or Destiny.

He does not believe in the concept of love at first sight.

He does not believe in the fact that there is 'someone for everyone' in the world.

He is often fond of saying of coincidences that 'the universe is rarely so lazy'.

However, after meeting Doctor John Hamish Watson for the first time in that lab at St. Bart's, he knew he'd hit hard. That the Universe had let a coincidence occur, that he had found the man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

And so he struggled with his fundamentals.

While he knew that the phenomenon of 'love at first sight' was a farce, he was experiencing the same himself. While he knew that it was merely an accident that Mike Stamford had met John that same day and introduced him to Sherlock, the small romantic part of him believed that it had been Destiny herself that had brought them together. That they were 'meant to be'.

John had asked him, the second or third time that they'd slept together, when he'd realised that he'd fallen in love with him. Sherlock did not have to hesitate to tell him that that moment in the lab at St. Bart's? That was when he knew.

John still marvels over that fact.

It's kept John awake many a night, Sherlock knows, the fact that Sherlock is so precise in his knowing when he fell in love with him, and that he can't pinpoint the same.

Sherlock tells him not to worry, that it is more than enough that he's certain he's in love with him, no matter when it happened. Because to him, John's unconditional love and adoration is enough. And that, he thinks fondly, is Fate's finest miracle so far.

...

_Thoughts?_


	11. The Norse God

_This is my love letter to Loki/Tom Hiddleston. Yes, I am shameless. No, I do not give a flying fuck about it._

…

**The Norse God**

So John has an affinity for superheroes. So what? That's perfectly normal, isn't it? And everyone has a favourite superhero – be it Batman, Superman, Iron Man, Thor, the Wolverine, Captain America, the Flash, whatever. It's fine. It's _healthy_.

John loves them all. He's a huge fan. But there's one Marvel character John cherishes beyond reason.

Loki of Asgard - wait, it's Loki of Jotunheim now, isn't it?

The Norse god of mischief, twisted by Marvel to create such a wonderfully dark, wonderfully likeable villain, John likes to say of his favourite character. He's intense, brooding, passionate. Undeniably attractive with a voice like sex. And those LEGS that just seem to go on for _miles_... Mmmmm. Also the fact that he has an intelligent mind on those shoulders. And everyone knows how Doctor John Watson prefers the sexy, intelligent types.

And look how badly everyone's always treated him, John murmurs, shaking his head at Odin and Thor. He's just _misunderstood_! Poor, poor Loki. He just wanted some love.

And there's the fact that Loki of Asgard – Jotunheim – reminds John of Sherlock. Just a tiny bit. Okay, a _lot_.

Sherlock protests every time John voices this, stating loudly that he looks nothing like the god of mischief, gesticulating violently as he points out the differences between him and the, well, horn-adorned god. But the good doctor knows better than to argue with him on this, because no matter how much Sherlock may protest it, he secretly loves being compared to Loki. And he knows himself that they are more alike than there are differences. Both are tall, dark-haired, intelligent, highly gifted. Both misunderstood beings, craving love and affection and, in Loki's case, his place in the world. Both are snarky, sarcastic bastards who use their caustic words to cover up their weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Both the god and his sweet consulting detective are sex-on-legs. So sexy they make John want to devour them until they reach the centre of the earth. (Or space, whatever – look, it doesn't make a difference. The guy's on Earth half the time, right?)

The consulting detective is often jealous of John's obvious obsession with the Norse god, but he doesn't try to curb it, because his doctor's Loki-filled fantasies are often fulfilled in the form of some of his and Sherlock's most naughty, most spectacular sex ever. So he doesn't complain very often, and John's glad. And even if he did, there's always the fact that John knows how Sherlock practically _salivates_ whenever Captain America is on screen. He completely understands, though. There's not many who can resist the sandy-haired Cap's charm.

But that's beside the point. Besides, John's naughty thoughts have given him ideas about buying his love a Loki costume and doing, well, _things_ to him while he's in that costume... he licks his lips in anticipation. He can't wait.

...

_Thoughts? _


	12. Sweet Tooth

_So yes, I might continue this part due to the implied sexytimes in this part of my – frankly lewd – musings. But then again, it all depends on my mood. _

…

**Sweet tooth**

Sherlock Holmes is a champion sweet eater. Give him any kind of sweet eatable – cake, chocolate, boiled sweets – and he will finish it all faster than you've eaten your first chocolate bar. He's a glutton for anything sweet, and John often indulges this habit of his. It sort of makes up for all the days he doesn't eat due to a case, he justifies to himself, and now that he's eating, however unhealthy it may be – well, he shouldn't complain.

This sweet-bingeing always takes place after a case, whether a big one or small. But the celebration is always larger when it's a big, difficult case they've just closed and want to savour the feeling of victory for a little longer before moving onto the next one. They always stop by the local baker's on the way back home from a case, and John lets Sherlock pick all the sweet, creamy eatables he wants (which makes the consulting detective's eyes light up and he proceeds to do so like a little child at an amusement park), to take home and devour over a period of several hours. Never mind the cost.

It's been a few hours since they came back home, arms laden with boxes and boxes of cakes, pastries, sweets and chocolate. Enough to give whole countries diabetes. John grins at Sherlock and the latter smiles vaguely back at him (his mind focussed only on the sweets in front of him), unaware that his sweetheart is busy formulating a devious plan involving cherries, chocolate and whipped cream – and the two of them, of course. They sit themselves side by side on the couch and begin to eat.

Sherlock eats like a freight train, practically inhaling the cakes and pastries, and John smiles at him throughout, slowly eating his own delicious baked sweet. Once the high has worn off, though, Sherlock slows down, calms his mind and takes a _look_ at John H. Watson. Because that thing he's doing to the éclair? Right there, the one with his tongue? It should be made _illegal_. So laden with sexuality it should be made illegal and John should be deported for making it look so sexy. It also doesn't help, obviously, that the éclair is cylindrical and filled with white cream.

And once Sherlock is done devouring his own, he makes a swipe for John's sweet. Obviously.

But he won't do it the usual way, oh no. Sherlock Holmes has a strange, but extremely believable at this point, desire to pluck the chocolate éclair from the good doctor's mouth into his own. It tastes better that way, he believes. And anyway, John, if you keep doing that very painfully obvious thing with your mouth in front of me, how am I supposed to concentrate on anything _but_ your lovely, pink mouth?

They still have a mountainous pile of pastries and doughnuts left, but who actually cares about them, right?

And John suddenly moans. Very loud, very obvious.

It's enough to send Sherlock Holmes over the edge.

He _lunges_ at John and crashes his mouth to the good doctor's, forcing his mouth open and swirling his tongue inside his mouth, tasting chocolate and whipped cream and that ever-present, slightly-lingering essence of tea. He feels John smirk around his mouth, and he thinks in a haze, _oh, wicked, _wicked_ man_. Sherlock settles himself comfortably on John's lap, straddling the doctor and looping his arms around the latter's neck. One hand clutches at the soft hair on the nape of his neck, the other slowly travels upwards and latches itself onto the hair on his head.

And he damn near _keens_, because so god help him if they don't get to a bedroom soon, he cannot guarantee his body's reactions. And if he's deduced John's intentions right, his love intends a great deal.

'John, John, John John John John John' – his name is a mantra he cannot stop chanting.

And John, wonderful John, understands in an instant.

They break apart, short of breath, sporting raging hard-ons – and John _grins_. His eyes are dark, blown so wide that there is not a hint of iris, and with a lazy hand motion, he orders – _orders_ – Sherlock to go to their room.

Shiver convulsing down his spine, Sherlock runs to their room, leaving John to gather the ingredients for what seems an extremely promising night.

…

_Thoughts?_


	13. Sweet Tooth, Part 2

_If you'll notice, the rating's gone up with this chapter. Turns out, being sick makes me want to write 750+ words of Johnlock porn. Hmm. Who knew. _

_Anyway, I am shameless and I do not regret this one. Single. Bit. _

_Enjoy!_

…

**Sweet Tooth – Part 2**

John grins ferally to himself at the thought of his thoughts. Maybe it's the adrenaline from the case still pumping through his veins – but John has always been bafflingly creative when it comes to sex. With gems such as the Night of the Flaming Christmas Tree (long story short – they'd had to vacate the flat for a few weeks until it was fully refurbished), the Heat Wave Solution (lots and lots of ice and mint in places you wouldn't even _imagine_), the Utensil Utilisation (don't ask) and the Heels-and-Underwear Delirium (do _not_ even go there) under his fast-widening belt, one never knows what he'll come up with next.

John's chosen to go classic tonight, however – thick, sticky chocolate syrup. And no hands. Or mouths. Well, not on the body part you'd expect.

Great that that's all established. Now, shall we begin?

He pads softly to the bedroom, carrying the bowl of chocolate syrup with him. Finding his long, lanky, naked love spread eagled on the bed with his eyes shut tight, he smiles fondly at the sight for a moment before setting the bowl of syrup on the bedside table. Sherlock's eyes ease open at the sound, roam over John's fully-clothed body for a few seconds, then find something particularly interesting on the ceiling above them to fixate upon. John lowers his body gently upon the detective's, nudging his legs wide open with his knee. He pecks Sherlock's eyelids, nose, temple, cheekbones, anywhere but the lips. Nearing the lips, yes, but pulling back before actually touching them. Sherlock notices the pattern and whimpers, gripping John's waist.

'Shh,' John whispers.

He presses feather-light kisses to that strong jaw, stubborn chin, long, luxuriant neck and collarbone. After which he lifts himself off Sherlock's body and the bed and begins to strip. Rather inelegantly, granted, but effectively divesting himself of all clothing. Which is what Sherlock wants, right?

'Eyes closed. Now,' John commands in his best Captain Watson voice, and Sherlock feels that familiar shiver run down his spine once more. Because woah fuck-and-damn, that _voice_. _Yes_, Sherlock likes a certain type of ex-army doctors bossing him about. _Yes_, he thinks of Captain John H. Watson as his tiny tyrant and is extremely turned on by him. World, time to start moving again.

John crawls back onto the bed, finding a seat between Sherlock's legs. Bowl in hand, he dips one finger in the thick chocolate syrup and drizzles it liberally onto Sherlock's chest and torso, then moving farther up to be especially generous with those prominent collarbones. Some syrup is put on the lips, and once his job is done, John leans back up to admire his masterpiece. Sherlock looks _delectable_. Well done, Watson. Mission accomplished.

John then proceeds to lick a long, wet stripe along Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's compliant stillness is abruptly disrupted by a tremor that wracks his entire body and he clutches John's hips harder, his nails making small crescents in the soft flesh. His leaking cock (it is very happy) is busy humping itself against the only surface it can find – John's knee – which makes John buck a little. John, pleased with this reaction, continues to lave at Sherlock's pale form, pausing for a moment to grab the bowl of chocolate syrup once again, this time drizzling some syrup on Sherlock's sensitive belly button. And he licks some more.

…

Sherlock has blissfully blanked out by this point. He briefly thinks of Nirvana – that _this _is what eternal bliss feels like – and contemplates that he wouldn't mind spending the rest of his life like this, stretched out on their bed with John practically fucking his navel. He babbles and moans and groans and makes _those _noises – the ones he would never make in front of anyone but his John. His sweet, wonderful John Watson.

John's only response to this is a gusty sigh, his breath cooling the patch of skin he has just licked, and Sherlock starts to come. Violently. With thrusts and spurts and spasms, painting thick white ropes onto John's chest and _sweet Lord in heaven_ he thinks he blanked out a little there, because when his eyes wrench open, John is staring at him hungrily, stroking his own erection hard and fast. Given that it doesn't take long for John to come as well, Sherlock feels rather proud of himself.

John smiles vaguely at him once and then slumps boneless on top of his love, the come on both of their chests making a _squelching_ sound as they collide, and really, it's got to a point that Sherlock _enjoys_ the sensation.

All thoughts of cleaning up leaving his mind, he shifts the blanket to cover their bodies (it's actually pretty cold out today). The bed is sticky and smells of a combination of things – Sherlock, John, chocolate, sex, come – but to Sherlock, this is heaven.

And with this final thought, he drifts off.

…

_Thoughts?_

_PS - if you managed to spot the Star Trek Into Darkness reference in this chapter, I am very pleased with you. VERY. Because yayy._


	14. Demons

_I am __so__ sorry for not posting in forever! I've been tremendously busy, and inspiration hasn't struck in a while, and all the usual excuses. But here's something that struck me. Enjoi. :)_

…

**Demons**

Even the most arrogant and self-contained man in the world has his demons. They haunt him, taunt him, and wring him inside out until there is nothing left of him but an empty shell.

Personal strength is of no concern here – no matter how strong the man is, his demons always seek him out.

John calls them Sherlock's monsters. They attack him and pierce him with claws of self-doubt and that hated, horrible feeling of uselessness. John, of all people in this world, knows that if there is one person who is neither of those two adjectives, it is Sherlock Holmes.

Having experienced both of self-doubt and hatred in large quantities over the years, neither John nor Sherlock are still immune to the feelings.

There have been several recent, post-Fall developments. John's Afghanistan nightmares have morphed into nightmares involving Sherlock, and Sherlock, after his return, has become more withdrawn and pensive. He sleeps more, even though he has nightmares of his own now, eats more and lets himself be taken care of more by John.

Each battling demons of his own, they both take comfort in each other. It's an unhealthy, co-dependent relationship, but neither man brings himself to care much about its consequences.

It's particularly after a harrowing case involving children or the very rare case that Sherlock isn't able to solve within a week that the monsters come out of their hiding place under the bed and worm their way into Sherlock's mind. It's written in the way his shoulders are set hard, the downward curve of his mouth and the blankness of his eyes. And there is nothing John can do to coax the demons out of his mind, other than to just hold him as close to him as he can. Just as Sherlock can do nothing to ease the intensity of John's anxiety attacks when they strike, than just be there as a comforting presence.

They've both hidden and suppressed so much of themselves over the years that it manifests as the bouts of depression and anxiety attacks that they both suffer from time to time.

This particular time has been worse than others. A quadruple homicide that has taken Sherlock a month to solve (the solution of which has come in the wake of weeks of black moods, constant irritability, absolutely no physical contact between him and John and several anxiety attacks on John's part), and Sherlock is not happy about it. He trudges back home in a listless state, John trailing silently behind him. Not jubilant, not rushing with the usual post-case adrenaline.

They walk back home in the steady London drizzle, John's hand a rooting point in the small of Sherlock's back. Fitting the key in the lock of the door and turning it, John gently leads Sherlock through the door and up the stairs. Once in the living room, he shrugs his own coat as well as Sherlock's off his shoulders, and steers him towards the sofa. Sherlock toes his shoes off and looks blankly at him, and he gets the message. John lies on the sofa and pulls his love down on top of him. They lie there fully clothed for a long while, Sherlock shivering slightly with the intensity of the emotions he's feeling. John wraps his hands around Sherlock and wills his anxiety to calm down, focusing all his attention on the consulting detective.

They lie there all night as John falls asleep. Sherlock is a comforting, if a little heavy, presence.

Come morning, and Sherlock's monsters have relented a bit in their attack on Sherlock's mind. The blank look has abated from Sherlock's eyes as he picks himself up off John and smiles down at him slightly, offering him a hand. John takes the proffered hand and hauls himself up. He kisses Sherlock fondly on the temple as he moves to the kitchen to make tea, clothes rumpled and badly in need of a shower.

They're getting there bit by bit.

...

_Thoughts?_

_PS__ – I've now decided to go on an indefinite break, at least until I finish school. I'll be extremely busy with studies and stuff for the next year, and so it's best for me to not write for a while now. I might write a few one-shots here and there intermittently, but I won't be returning to my chapter stories unless some really good inspiration strikes or if I manage to be not-so-busy one day. Sincerest apologies to those who looked forward to me completing my AU story, and to those who are disappointed. _

_Lots of love,_

_Rutvi x_


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